


such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces

by iwritetrash



Series: shakespearean sonnets [1]
Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Alfred is his Muse, Artist Edward, Edward still dies, M/M, References to Shakespeare, The Iliad References, excessive description
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 02:53:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14010582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwritetrash/pseuds/iwritetrash
Summary: if I could write the beauty of your eyesand in fresh numbers number all your graces,the age to come would say, “this poet lies—such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.”~ sonnet xvii, william shakespeare





	such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces

**Author's Note:**

> ghhhh okay so a couple of you over on tumblr might have noticed me moaning about spending an hour researching fancy paint pigments and uhhhh this is the fic that i did that for, and i'm not really sure if i like it or not but it feels like it's been an _age_ since i posted...
> 
> also this is super inspired by sonnet xvii (hence the title and the summary), bc lbr shakespeare was definitely not heterosexual, and that poem is a prime example, but you should totally read it. i decided edward was maybe more of an artist while alfred was probs more of a poet type though.
> 
> but yeah anyway i hope you like it!

Edward lacks the knack others seem to have with words. He can spin a pretty tale to convince someone regarding a course of action, or other things with practical purposes, but, when expressing his emotions, he finds himself rather tongue-tied and ineloquent. How can he give words to the beauty of the man who shares his bed as often as they can manage it? How can he possible hope to explain the feeling which coils low in his stomach, but also high in his chest, as though he cannot quite breathe easily when he catches sight of golden hair headed his way in the halls of the palace?

Alfred has always been better with words than he. 

When Edward puts pen to paper, he finds himself sketching instead of writing, outlining the curve of Alfred’s head, the sharp lines of his jaw, and the softness of his cheeks. The arch of his lips, the firm lines of his body, those almost-feminine eyes framed with thick lashes. Again and again, he sketches his lover, and yet he wonders how anyone could possibly believe that such a man existed in years to come. They will think Alfred to be nothing more than a symptom of some strange madness, or an angel who visited once in a dream, should future historians ever spare a glance for Edward’s papers.

He is reminded of a man far better with words than him, as he sketches Alfred’s ethereal beauty for what must be the thousandth time in the margins of _The Iliad_. Edward muses that perhaps Patroclus felt much the same as he looked upon his Achilles, for whom he died, and as Shakespeare did when seeing his _fair youth_ , for whom he wrote endless sonnets.

All men must have their muses, Edward thinks, fingers tracing over his newly completed sketch. What would Alfred say, to know he has become the object of Edwards constant fascination? Edward has never been a serious artist – he had long ago abandoned fine art in favour of politics – but Alfred makes him want to take a canvas and paint him in the finest paints he can find, with pure gold for his hair, vermillion for the colour in his cheeks and his lips, lapis lazuli for his eyes, so that future historians would truly think the man Edward was painting was some ethereal being.

This shall be his legacy, Edward thinks, as he fills page after page with Alfred’s face, until pencil on paper is no longer enough, and he begins to paint in watercolours in a vain attempt to capture Alfred’s beauty, and then he sets brush to canvas, without even the man himself sat before him, and paints from memory. He has traced every line of Alfred’s face so many times that he is certain he will never forget the cut of his lover’s jaw, the wry half-smile which seems so often to grace his lips, and the way his hair always falls _just so_.

From time to time even Edward himself feels convinced that he must be idolising Alfred, that no man can possibly be as beautiful as the one he has sketched, or painted, and yet every time they meet, in the dead of night in Edward’s rooms, or in the palace hallways, he is struck anew by the profound beauty of his lover. _This is the man he loves_ , Edward things, slightly in awe. _This is the man who loves him_.

When Edward is shot, he is only halfway finished with the oil painting he had begun, perhaps not using the finest pigments, but certainly on its way to capturing Alfred’s beauty as best he can without also capturing his animation, his fluidity of motion. He wonders what will become of his paintings, his sketches, all such obvious tells of his affection for Alfred. Perhaps they will lead nowhere, they will be returned to Alfred, or perhaps destroyed, or perhaps someone will take interest, and query who this man is with whom Edward seems so infatuated. Certainly, it could tarnish his name, if not Alfred’s as well. 

Damn him for leaving such blatant evidence behind him.

And what will become of Alfred? Beyond potential incrimination, how will he fare in the wake of his death? Edward wonders if he will grieve, if he will know Edward planned to forgive him at dinner, if he will know Edward intended to come at all. As Edward bleeds out on the streets of London, he realises distantly that he will never see Alfred’s face again, never touch his cheek or feel their lips pressed against each other, bodies intertwined. 

At least his artwork remains in the land of the living, so that his love for Alfred might live on long after he is dead, and that even Alfred himself will be permanently immortalised on paper and canvas.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know if you liked this! i kind of briefly thought about writing a series of individual works inspired by shakespeare's sonnets, so if you like that idea then let me know. i think i'm going to try and finish 'be all my sins remembered' first though...
> 
> thank you so so so much for reading <3


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